Extracted

by RR Haywood

  They break free from the side of the wave into a second of blessed air that they suck into lungs begging to be used. Down they go, falling back into the water as the rope drags them towards the square of light at the base of the wave.

  The blue square is so clear but the white hull of the yacht is also so clear. The torn sails hanging from the masts as the vessel shoots down the wave aiming for the portal. Harry screams out as though to give warning but his voice is whipped away by wind and sea. The yacht goes through into the bunker, disappearing from view with the mast cut clean in half by the upper edge of the blue light. An instant later the sensation of being dragged ceases with a sudden loss of forced motion.

  ‘Swim,’ Harry snaps the word out, gasping for air as he kicks with his legs, driving them down towards the light. She joins him, kicking hard with one arm holding the doctor and the other stroking through the water.

  Get the doctor through. Get the doctor through. That’s all that matters. Get him through and give Ben a reason to live. Ben has to live. Get the doctor through.

  They swim and kick and paddle against the force of the wave that keeps threatening to pull them back up the rising wall. They swim and kick and paddle with the weight of the doctor held in their hands. Eyes burning, mouths and throats stinging. They puke and retch and cry but swim all the same, but it’s not enough and the strength goes from Safa, her limbs refusing to work or do as bid.

  ‘Go,’ she pants and simply lets go of the doctor, knowing Harry has the strength to get him through, but the big man falters, snapping round as she fights just to keep her head above the water.

  ‘SAFA,’ Harry roars, holding the doctor one-handed as she sinks beneath the waves. He waits, praying she’ll come back up, then spotting her form metres away being swept by the waves. The mission has to come first, the mission always comes first. Get the doctor back. They are soldiers and the lives of a few do not matter against the lives of so many. He swims, hating himself but knowing this is what must be done. He swims, aiming for the light, but wishing above all else to ditch this man and go back for Safa.

  He gets closer. Rising higher with the current and dropping back down the wall by twisting his body just so and letting gravity do the rest. He times the approach with a plan in mind, rising and falling as the square light shimmers closer and closer with every kick of his legs. He sinks down, sensing rather than knowing when to kick and when to let the wall of water lift him higher until he’s about to sail past the shimmering light. He twists and grips the doctor with both of his hands while rolling on to his back. A huge heave and he forces the man up into the air as he sinks from the explosion of force generated. The doctor goes through the light but he does not. Instead, he goes down deep past the light and that explosion of energy drains the strength from his limbs and the air from his lungs. He tries to draw air in but only water comes. Choking water that fills his lungs. Panic sets in with legs kicking and arms flailing and in that panic so he breathes in again, worsening the damage as his body dies from lack of oxygen.

  A raging sea with mountainous waves rolling to a far and distant shore. An empty RIB bouncing from peak to trough and two corpses floating face down as they lift and fall in the dark green depths and a blue shimmering light that is suddenly no longer there.

  Thirty-Three

  The empty building opposite the warehouse is bought outright with cash paid through a property development company that is owned by a finance company that is working for an investment firm that may or may not be registered under an umbrella corporation that might be registered in the Bahamas.

  The five men gain access one by one, dressed in exactly the same kind of workmen’s clothing. The shade, the fit, the style is identical. It isn’t five men that go inside one by one. It is the same man coming and going.

  A tradesperson entering a property has reason to carry bags and equipment. He has reason to park his van outside and potter about, taking in large pots of paint and boxes of supplies. He has tool cases, wiring looms, ladders, power tools and a stylus for his tablet tucked behind his ear. He huffs and puffs, slightly harassed, overworked, underpaid. He looks about for the parking attendants and curses softly under his breath. He does it five times.

  The five gain access and take up position within. The windows are done first with exceptional attention to detail. A special film is secured above each window and stretched out at an angle into the room. Anyone looking in will see a partial reflection of the room and the outside. Anyone on the inside can stand and stare out without fear of being seen.

  High-powered lenses are made ready. High-powered directional microphones are positioned towards the warehouse opposite, aimed in particular at the alarmed front door and the windows to the front. The right-side windows on the warehouse offer glimpses of large and seemingly unused rooms. The windows on the upper levels on the left are blacked out. The three windows on the ground floor to the left are grimy. Two give light to the hallway inside the main door. The third gives light to a room in use. Shelves fitted to walls. Some chairs and a table, but the whole of the room cannot be seen. It is that window that is their focus.

  As the last film is fitted to the last window, they observe a RIB being delivered on the back of a trailer towed by a van driven by the German-speaking Englishman seen in the café.

  It’s a good RIB too. Very high specification. The outboard motor is immense. The German-speaking Englishman opens the alarmed door and is joined by the proper Englishman. Together they carry in wetsuits, diving equipment and a huge reel of rope attached to a motor. Then they huff and puff to get the RIB inside the wide main door.

  A weird blue light then comes on. Distinctive and reflecting in the glass of the windows. It goes off within a few seconds then comes again, but this time in the inside room of the far-left grimy ground floor window. Blue light on and off.

  When the German-speaking man comes out to move the van, the RIB can no longer be seen in the hallway inside the main door. The RIB is big. It couldn’t fit through the door to the room on the left. The van is driven away and a few minutes later the German-speaking Englishman rushes back to get through the alarmed door and inside the room. The blue light stayed on while he was gone, and a few seconds after he goes back in it goes off.

  ‘Mother will be pleased,’ Alpha says quietly to the other four. ‘I think we’ve found it.’

  Thirty-Four

  ‘Ben . . . Ben . . . can you hear me? Ben, open your eyes . . . that’s it. Look at me now. Look at me, Ben. That’s good.’

  Ben blinks up. A man blinks down at him. Bloodshot eyes in a face filled with broken blood vessels across his nose and a salt-and-pepper-streaked beard.

  ‘Ben? Can you hear me?’

  Ben wonders where the hell he is this time. That this man is a doctor is obvious just from the tone of voice, and of course the white lab coat and stethoscope give it away. For a second Ben thinks he is back in the real world in a normal hospital until his eyes start focusing properly and he looks at the bare concrete ceiling above his head. I’m not dead. Harry didn’t take him back. A weird feeling of relief rushes through him.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ the doctor asks him in a deep voice that sounds somewhat rough, like he’s got a bad throat.

  Ben goes to speak but his mouth and throat are too dry. The doctor helps him sit up a bit and presses a cup of water to his lips with trembling hands. Ben gulps greedily with an increasing thirst but the doctor pulls the cup away.

  ‘That’s enough for now,’ the doctor says firmly, taking the cup away from Ben’s hands as he tries to pull it back.

  ‘Thirsty,’ Ben says, staring at the cup.

  ‘Good. That’s a good sign,’ the doctor says, putting the cup down. ‘You can have some more in a minute when I’ve assessed you. Now, do you feel pain anywhere?’

  ‘Everywhere,’ Ben says instantly before actually checking to see what hurts and what doesn’t. He tries to focus on his body, gently tensing the muscles in his legs and arms
first then tentatively shifting position before glancing back up at the doctor. ‘Not really,’ he admits.

  ‘Good. That’s a good sign,’ the doctor says again. ‘Follow the light.’ He hovers a small torch in front of Ben’s eyes and moves it left and right a few times as he tracks the beam. ‘Good. Stay still.’ He shines the torch into Ben’s ears then comes back to his eyes, examining him closely before putting the torch away and reaching out to grasp Ben’s skull between his hands that start to probe as though checking for bumps.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ben asks while getting his head groped.

  ‘John Watson.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘And no I am not making that up,’ the doctor says in a tone that suggests he’s said the same thing many times. ‘It’s a common name.’

  ‘Doctor Watson?’

  ‘Yes. I am Doctor Watson.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘My father was called John.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And my grandfather.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘My great-grandfather was called—’

  ‘John?’

  ‘Hamish.’

  ‘Hamish?’

  ‘Doctor Watson’s middle name.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Hamish.’

  ‘Hamish is Doctor Watson’s middle name?’ Ben asks, fighting the confusion to keep up with him.

  ‘Yes. Doctor John Hamish Watson.’

  ‘Oh. Your family liked Sherlock Holmes then,’ Ben remarks as the doctor’s fingers probe about and start pushing into Ben’s stomach and ribs while he watches Ben for a pain reaction.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Is your middle name Hamish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s Sherlock.’

  ‘You are shitting me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Eh?’ Ben blinks at him.

  ‘I am shitting you. My middle name is not Sherlock,’ Doctor Watson says while working down Ben’s legs.

  ‘Oh . . . what is it then?’

  ‘Holmes.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What the fuck? Who are you?’

  ‘Doctor Watson, I just said that.’

  ‘No . . . I mean who are you? Like . . .’

  ‘Ah,’ the doctor says knowingly. ‘I see we have a loss of cognitive function.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hmmm, quite a serious loss of cognitive function it appears,’ Doctor Watson says with a serious nod at Ben.

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘My name. I’m Ben.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Doctor Watson,’ he says, holding a hand out to shake.

  ‘You’re fucking weird is what you are.’

  ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Do you?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Do I?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, do you?’

  ‘I do. Do you?’

  ‘Maybe. Do you?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ the doctor muses, looking at Ben intently.

  ‘We’re in Roland’s Batcave in the dinosaur times.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Doctor Watson,’ Doctor Watson says, holding his hand out again.

  ‘Er . . . we just shook hands,’ Ben says, shaking his head again.

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure.’

  ‘You are sure we shook hands.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Okay, weirdo, why are you here?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Checking on you,’ the doctor says, looking down at him as though the answer is obvious.

  ‘Not here in this room, but why are you here? In Roland’s Batcave in dinosaur times?’

  ‘I just said. I’m checking on you.’

  ‘Fuck me, you’re a one, you are,’ Ben says, getting up into a proper sitting position and reaching for the cup, which is on a newly installed bedside table, or rather a rough-hewn bit of wood on legs.

  ‘Did I say you could have more water?’

  ‘No,’ Ben says, taking the cup and downing it in one smooth motion. ‘So . . . why are you here?’

  ‘Ah,’ he says in a voice that makes Ben realise he was pissing about before, but this new voice is serious, deep and full of gravitas. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Crack on.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sits down on the edge of Ben’s bed and sighs deeply in that way doctors do when they’re about to tell someone they’ve got fourteen seconds left to live.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Ben says with a wince.

  ‘I feel like shit,’ Doctor Watson says. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Haven’t had a drink for four days though.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why four days?’

  ‘I got here four days ago.’

  ‘You got here four days ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been out of it for four days?’

  ‘You have been in an induced coma to allow your body to heal past any point of danger. You were on a drip until a couple of hours ago. Medicine has come a long way since your times, Ben.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And other than needing complete rest, you’re fine.’ The doctor sighs again, that precursor to bad news. ‘However . . . I have some bad news.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Miss Patel and Mr Madden came for me . . . I believe the term used here is extraction? I was on my yacht when a storm hit and I am given to understand that I died in that storm.’

  ‘Right,’ Ben says, feeling his heart rate increasing.

  ‘A doctor was required to give medical aid to you following the beating given to you from Mr Madden. I was the doctor chosen and your colleagues came for me to extract me from my point of death to bring me back here to administer to your injuries.’

  Ben stares, mesmerised by this strange man speaking so bluntly but in a way that ensures his rapt and unwavering attention.

  ‘They did not make it back,’ the doctor says, staring at Ben. ‘Miss Patel and Mr Madden both perished in the storm.’

  Ben stays silent for a long second. Staring unblinking and unmoving. ‘But . . . how did you get back?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was unconscious. All I know is I got through and they did not come back.’

  Ben swallows, feeling the world as it spins dizzyingly the wrong way, making him want to grip the bed for fear of falling off. Safa and Harry are dead. Both dead.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘This is a shock,’ Doctor Watson says gently, ‘and I apologise for the way in which I spoke to you, but I needed to be sure you were able to cognitively absorb and deal with the bad news.’

  ‘Safa?’

  ‘Yes, Ben. Safa did not make it back, and neither did Harry. I am sorry.’

  ‘I . . . but . . .’

  ‘I understand that Harry beat you,’ he says, still looking closely at Ben.

  Ben nods, unable to say anything.

  ‘I think it’s important for you to know that Harry was trying a last resort to save you. Roland wanted to send you back, but Harry had told him you’ve got to break a man before you can rebuild him. That’s why the beating was given . . .’

  ‘I attacked him,’ Ben says stupidly.

  ‘I think, from piecing everything together, that perhaps you were provoked to have that reaction so that the beating could be given. I understand you were not applying yourself to the tasks required.’

  Ben sits stunned to the core as his system dumps adrenaline into veins that surges through his body, snapping him wide awake with his mind racing. ‘Fuck me . . .’

&
nbsp; ‘Indeed,’ the doctor says, gravely bowing his head in respect.

  ‘It was wrong . . . the whole fucking thing was wrong . . . Safa was right . . .’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ the doctor says gently, as though prepared for a shocked patient gabbling nonsensically.

  ‘This. All of this . . . bringing people here with no expectation of how they would react and . . . Safa was right . . . I had to disconnect . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes indeed,’ Doctor Watson says, letting him vent his grief.

  ‘Oh fuck, what have I done?’

  ‘You must not carry the personal responsibility for the decisions made by others—’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Ben snaps, shifting his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘I’ve killed them . . . I fucking killed them . . .’

  ‘Ben, you did not kill them. The storm did that. You must rest. Please, get back into bed and I’ll give you something to help you sleep.’

  ‘I’ll kill him.’ Ben seethes with anger, pulling his grey tracksuit off and stripping naked in front of the doctor without registering the bloke is still there. ‘I’ll bloody kill him,’ he mutters, reaching down to pick up his black clothes, still folded neatly on the floor, and tugging them on.

  ‘Ben, the shock is expected, but you’re still healing. You must rest.’

  ‘Safa was right. I had to disconnect but I didn’t. I wallowed in self-pity like a selfish fucking twat . . . Jesus Christ, what have I done? Why did he let them go back?’

  ‘Ben, please . . .’

  He gets the boots on, lacing up quickly before striding towards the open door with the doctor in hot pursuit, pleading for him to go back and rest.

  ‘Ben, you must listen . . .’

  Ben gets through the door and into the corridor, heading down into the main room with a thunderous rage building in his gut.

  ‘ROLAND?’

  ‘Ben, stop this.’ The doctor bustles behind him.

  ‘ROLAND, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?’ Ben roars louder as his mind finally awakens to where he is and what should have been done. Roland was right when he said he didn’t have a clue. The man is incompetent beyond words and because of that Ben was allowed to get so bad he needed a beating to snap him out of it, and his own stupid selfish stubbornness made him keep getting back up when Harry was begging him to stay down. Harry hurt him, but every punch he gave was deserved. Ben caused this. He made this happen. He made them go for that doctor and he made them die and that cannot be forgiven, but it was Roland that brought them here and Roland that didn’t factor in the reactions people would have, and it was Roland that let them go back to get the doctor.